


such a fickle thing

by LouPF



Category: Kaptein Sabeltann | Captain Sabertooth - Formoe
Genre: Blood, Falling In Love, Killing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Blood, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Happy, Not a Love Story, POV Second Person, Rape/Non-con Elements, Selfish Sabeltann, and somehow it still kinda is?, like yes there's death and stuff but it's not descript
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: You hate him from the day he's born until the day he dies. And maybe you do love him a little bit, on the way. He sure seems to think so.
Relationships: Kaptein Sabeltann/Pinky
Kudos: 1





	such a fickle thing

You don't really care about him, at first. It's Langemann who informs you of the fact that he exists - it's over two plates and a table during one of the rare times you dine together.

Morgan's wife just gave birth, he tells you, in a tone too conversational to be precisely that.

It takes you a moment to remember who Morgan is. "Alright," you say. "As long as it doesn't interfere with his work."

And that's the end of that conversation.

*

You hate him nine months later, you decide, squinting down into the crying baby's crate. He's been afloat for some hours, it seems, and the crying has died down to a little sniffle. It's still crying.

You hate when babies cry.

Something about the babe is odd, though, and you squint harder. And – yes. The boy has eyes in different colours. The thought comes to you before you have time to stop it – he must be cursed, potentially a curse upon his soul and heart.

Langemann's name slips from your lips before you can stop yourself. By the time the man stands by your side, you've discarded the ridiculous notion of the boy's eyes being a cursed - but now Langemann needs a reason for your call. Not wanting to admit a babe's eyes frightened you, you blurt, "take the brat back to Abra. He's one of ours."

You leave before you can see Langemann's reaction.

*

You assume Langemann shoves the runt off to some family when you return to Abra, and you're okay with that. It's not like it matters to you either way - his survival was a chance thing, rocking in a wooden crate on the cruel ocean waves.

It takes you six whole years to realize Langemann just kept him. He's been having the brat alive through Rosa's kindness, mostly, and several parents with children his age's help. Primarily for babysitting – Langemann is quite potentially the worst candidate possible to raise an Abrian child, but it's too late to stop him now.

You're somewhat impressed with Langemann's determination. Yet, you're still not pleased. Something about the boy irks you. You decide it's because he takes up Langemann's valuable time and leave it at that.

(It's been years since you last thought of him, and when you're reminded he yet lives, you can't stop thinking about his curse-eyes.)

*

You barely think about him for two years, and then he starts pestering you about joining the crew. For the sake of Langemann's dignity, you ignore him - and soon enough, Langemann whisks him away to hopefully explain what an utterly ridiculous notion that is.

Other pirates might hire that low in age, but you tend to not. It's better to wait until they're older, and of more use - both in regards to skill and size. If you can't man the canons, what are you even doing aboard a ship? Even in the galley, an eight-year-old is of little use. Does he even know what a knife _looks_ like?

No, you decide, and scoff at the space he occupied before Langemann pulled him away. He'll have to wait a few years. And prove his worth, naturally.

(You start turning away ten-year-olds. Just in case someone asks.)

*

He becomes a menace a year later. Apparently, Langemann had not been strict enough when warning him about you.

You slowly but surely grow to hate him for other reasons than his eyes and his upbringing. You hate that he bothers you, and that he takes your time, and that he keeps being so confident no matter how many times you beat him down. You hate that he knows what he's doing, and that he's trying so hard, and that he doesn't seem to stop. You hate that he has so much potential and that his eyes gleam whenever you almost praise him (before you remember who he is), and you hate that if he'd been older, and not who he is, you would've hired him already - if not for his skill, then at least for his eagerness.

You hate that he reminds you of yourself and that every movement is an echo of who you were, who you used to be, and who you are becoming.

(you hate how you can't stop thinking about his blasted, thrice-damned eyes.)

*

You're told it's his tenth birthday, at one point, and you grunt and nod and don't really care. The rules you've set for yourself give you another year or so before you have to come up with another reason to not let him aboard.

Langemann asks why you're so harsh on him. You don't give him an answer. It's not in your character to admit your feelings readily, even if they are hatred, as is the occasion here.

You find yourself looking forward to the day the boy is old enough to kill. Of course, you could just kill him now. You've been kind to children before, but he's growing out of that age, and you're getting impatient with his little tricks.

But Langemann would never forgive you, and a quartermaster with a grudge is something you've been warned of enough times to fear. An adult crossing a line, however, Langemann cannot defend – and if it's proven that he'll try anyway, a disappearance in the middle of the night is not impossible to orchestrate.

You let the boy live, for now, your hatred of him unfurling and growing every time you see him and his horrid eyes.

*

You hate him when he's ten, and he's worked his way through your list of problems, solving every single one of them with a flourish. You hate that you're considering letting him join the crew if only to have him be useful before you can actually get rid of him. You hate the impish, cheeky little grin he gives you, and you hate that you have to turn away to hide your response.

You hate that he's ten and not older, and you hate that he's ten and not younger.

You hate that he reminds you of yourself.

*

When he's eleven, the current galley boy proves himself a worthless little fool, and you start searching for a new one. In the process, however, the Grim Lady is stolen - with him aboard.

You hate that you're worried. You hate that you're hopeful.

When you catch up to the Lady with the thieves' ship, you can see him climbing around like a monkey, quick and nimble. He's cutting ropes, you realize - the Lady's sails fall, useless without their support.

You blink. A clever solution, cutting the ropes instead of attempting to gain the upper hand. You hate to admit it, of course, and will never say it out loud – the little pest would, after all, never let you live it down.

And then he falls.

You hate that you're even more worried, now, so you send Langemann ahead first, to help him. When things have settled down, you praise Skalken instead of the boy. Anger is writ over his face, and you have to restrain yourself from smirking at it. Good. Let him feel the same hatred he has sent coursing through your veins.

*

You hate how betrayed you feel when he admits he's the one who led Bjørn to your position, and you hate how angry it makes you. You hate that his tears hurt and that you want to spit, "You've disappointed me," instead of, "You've failed me."

You hate how relieved you are when he frees you and the rest of the crew, and you hate how proud he looks when he presents you with the key to the King's Pearl. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him.

And you make him the new galley boy when you return to Abra.

Maybe his curse will work well with yours. It's an empty hope.

You hate that you hope.

*

You hate him when he's twelve, and you see him daily, sailing together on the longest expedition in years. You hate the jokes you hear drift from the galley, every now and then, and you hate that he practices fighting with the various members of the crew.

You hate how pleased he looks when he challenges you to a mock-duel on a dull day, his two-coloured eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun.

You hate that he laughs when you win, your sabre pressed to his throat, sharp-end down, his back against the deck.

Well done, he tells you, and you snarl. Of course you did well, what else would you do? Let him win? Never.

His grin evaporates, and you remember yourself - where you are - who's watching. You pull back before the red line, stark against his pale skin, can grow and deepen.

He touches a hand to his neck, eyes wide. His fingers come back bloodied.

"You need to practice more," you say, and flee. Your heart hammers in your chest, furious and wild like a trembling little bird.

You hate that you didn't do more. You hate that you almost lost him.

*

When he's thirteen, he saves your life, stepping in before a blow you didn't realize was coming. He raises his own blade against your opponent, and sparks fly. You're about to fall back to instinctually block a woman reaching for his side, but he twists and takes that, as well. He glances at you and yells for you to get back down on Earth; what are you waiting for, captain, fight!

Had it been any other day, you would've had his head for going against you - but he's thirteen, and he saved your life, and there's blood on his cheek.

You scowl and throw yourself into the fight.

*

You treat his wounds after the battle, scolding him all the way. The smile he keeps giving you is blinding, and you resolutely ignore it.

*

When he's fifteen, he saves the Grim Lady from burning for the third time. Afterwards, Langemann storms into your office, his braids coming undone and expression carefully crafted into something resembling solemnity. When he talks, anger boils beneath the surface.

You listen, calm, to Langemann carefully - and fiercely - advocate and argue for why the boy should be officially made part of the crew, and he's worked here for years, captain, give him a _chance_!

When he's worked through all his issues, you drily inform him that you were planning to do so. He goes scarlet and hurries to take his leave, and you watch him, disgruntled.

Now you actually have to make the boy a part of the crew.

(to be quite honest, you had kind of forgotten he wasn't already.)

*

You make it an announcement at dinner and your crew cheers, clapping the boy on his shoulders and back, congratulations falling easy from their mouths. Good. Had they questioned your decision, you would've had to question _them._ Your choices are yours to make, and you will defend them, even if you're not certain about them yourself.

You hate the way he smiles at you, all bright cheer and gratitude and warmth, his damned blasted eyes shimmering in the candlelight. You hate the way it makes you feel like the universe has ignited your heart - like the flames spread all throughout you, spanning miles upon miles upon miles. Your bones creak beneath the heat, cracking and breaking open, and below lies something raw and vulnerable, and you hate it, hate it, hate it.

*

You hated him then, and you hate him a year later when he comes to your bed, terrifyingly sober. He promises to make you feel good, hands on your skin, shoulders trembling with want. When you ask how long he's longed for this, he answers _years_.

You hate how he feels against you, perfect and warm and pliable, like clay beneath your fingers. He'll wake with bruises tomorrow, but he doesn't seem to mind - his moans are muffled by your hair. You hate the rush of possessiveness at the thought.

And speaking of his moans, you hate those, too. You hate how he moves, rocking into you, and you hate how he sounds, like you're giving him everything and everything and _everything._

You hate how complete you feel when he cums, and how accomplished you feel when he cums again soon after. You hate his teeth on your skin, and his breath on your ear, and how mind-numbing your own orgasm is.

You hate how you lie in comfortable silence afterwards, cradling him to your chest like he's the dearest thing you know.

You hate that he is.

*

Two weeks later, you attack a merchant ship you happen to pass by. They tend to be easy prey - though this time, that assumption is a mistake, as it turns out they're undercover military more than ready to deal with a handful of pirates. Usually, you don't call retreats - which is probably why your crew is so quick to fall back, despite their near-constant hunger for fights.

Most of you escape unscathed. Skalken suffers a few cuts - apparently, the military does not care for his stank - but the others have held their own well. You pretend like you're not worried about the boy - you think you'll forever call him that, no matter how old he gets, until the end of your days - and hopes he's alright after he duelled the ship's captain.

You, yourself, did not receive any wounds, and you are not hurt - though you did get quite a scare when you nearly fell from the mainmast during the battle. The boy knows this, apparently, as he tears through the crowd and storms towards you like he has some kind of _claim_ over you.

(You hate that he does.)

He looks you over, completely ignoring his own bleeding arm, then nods silently and squeezes your hand. Later, he comes to your room, though not to your bed. He puts your head in his lap and toys with your hair, and you hate how easy it is to fall asleep with him watching.

When you wake, he's gone, and there are dozens of little un-tied braids in your hair. You have hair ties, and you consider, for a moment, securing the braids.

You hate how he smiles at you during breakfast the next day - like you have a little secret together. The braids keep your hair out of your face for once.

You wonder if he'd be willing to braid you again.

*

He starts coming to your rooms more regularly - sometimes to sleep with you, sometimes to just sleep next to you. You're not sure which one you hate the least. Maybe it's the sleeping, if only because it doesn't leave you dizzy and gasping for breath. Then again, sometimes he falls asleep first, and then you lie there, cradling him to your chest, and you're reminded of his fragile mortality... how close you've been to losing him before. How close he always is to leaving. You lie and listen to his heartbeat, feeling it dance beneath your fingertips, and you ache. Every inch of you aches, and you hate that, too.

When you wake in the morning, he's there, and you're a tangled mess of limbs and hair, and he laughs, and you grumble, and you hate how warm it makes you.

*

The first time you're back in Abra after he first came to you, you can't sleep. Your bed is too big and too cold and too empty. You hate it – you hate every _second_ of it – curled up against a pillow and growling into the mattress. The darkness outside mocks you, and you spend hours glaring into it until the shadows descend upon you and draw you in.

The next day you fetch him yourself, declaring you have important business to speak with him. He tries to ask what's wrong, but you don't explain. How can you explain that the darkness crept in and started gnawing at your heart? How do you explain that it's not yet gone?

You take him to bed, and he doesn't complain, only mutters a joke about 'christening' your bed - whatever that means. Some of the darkness retreats at his presence and bad jokes, and you hate that you're so dependent on him.

The two of you spend long hours in bed. He doesn't leave when dusk falls, tucked into your chest beneath the covers. You can hear his heartbeat, faintly, and close your eyes against the pain.

You hate this. All of this.

When you're certain he must've fallen asleep, you bury your face in his curls, grounding and anchoring yourself in a way you've never been able to do. He stirs, and you startle – you had thought he was asleep, after all. He asks if you're okay.

You ask why he's not asleep.

He says he didn't want to leave you alone when you weren't feeling good. He's been keeping himself awake, he tells you. He's not looking at you when he says it, the words muffled against your bare skin.

You can't really pull him closer, but you try anyway – wrapping your arms around his shoulders and curling around him – a pathetic attempt at shielding your precious little thing from anything that could hurt him.

*

The crew starts noticing after a while, and they're confused, but not worried. You wouldn't have cared either way - you return to his side as he returns to yours, an equally intoxicating drug pulling you both in.

You don't treat him any differently, except letting him come closer and - potentially - being more possessive... and yet he keeps returning. You hate that part of him - the part without an ounce of self-preservation, the selfish part, the part that has you longing for him when he's not there.

You hate him for making you feel happier than you have in years. You're not supposed to feel happy - you can't _afford_ to feel happy, not with your reputation or position. It makes you unresponsive and slow.

He's dangerous, and you hate it.

*

His seventeenth birthday rolls around, and you can barely look at him for how he glows, celebrated by nearly all of Abra. When did he earn their love? Have you been too busy to yearn and hurt to see what he's becoming? Blast is, you look away for two seconds, and suddenly the little runt you nearly left to die of hypothermia is shaping into your equal.

But oh, what an equal. You've seen him fight – he's come a long, long way from the little brat who challenged you to fight on your own ship. It's like a dance, and he knows the steps well. He's been letting his hair grow – how didn't you notice that? – and now, at his birthday, he's braided it in a pretty little pattern above his ears. You wonder if he asked Langemann to do it – or maybe Benjamin, he bears a striking resemblance to both – and find yourself wishing he'd asked you, despite barely knowing how to do a common braid yourself.

When he's raised onto the shoulders of Oliver and his husband to be paraded around the village, he bathes in the light of the setting sun – and he turns a blinding smile on you, waving eagerly. You look up at him – at how his hair _burns_ , free from his headcloth – at his cursed eyes and the joy in them.

And you realize that you might always look up at him.

You hurry to take a sip of your rum, hoping he thinks your flush is because of something other than –

Than –

Than whatever these conflicting emotions _are,_ damn it!

*

(He's loyal, you tell yourself sternly, you've never met anyone as loyal as him, bar maybe Langemann. He's saved your life, he's come to your side, he's the one light you have in this nightmare of a life, but –)

(but is it _enough_?)

(you hate, you hate, you _hate -_ )

*

When Oliver brings him back, he comes stumbling to your side, tipsy but nonetheless immensely pleased. You roll your eyes at him, but take him back to the castle at his request – no way are you departing from him now, revelations of growing power or not. He's giggling, and you make out, your back against the bedroom door.

You taste the alcohol on his lips and tilt his head, deepening the kiss. Nothing should affect him more than you – he's yours, and he'd better remember. No alcohol can change that.

He answers it eagerly, hands flying across your chest. When there's a pause long enough to breathe, he asks what you two are. You try to kiss him again – don't want to answer that question, the question you don't _know_ the answer to – but he ducks. For the first time, you can remember, he uses your name. Once. Like it's a precious thing.

Does it matter, you ask, hands tightening around his arms. Does it matter? Does it?

You don't know.

He wants to know what he means to you.

You hate that you don't know, and you hate that you can't tell him, and you hate so much, right now.

"I don't know," you admit, and you hate how it hurts, like the words are knives scratching through your throat.

He nods, as though expecting as much, and kisses you again. It's not before later, sitting atop your chest and tracing invisible patterns across your skin, that he confesses to loving you.

You don't answer, only twine your fingers in his and lean up to press your lips to his. He can make of that what he will.

You're not sure if you can ever love.

*

The next morning he tells you he meant it and that he was serious.

You hate that he's not lying, and you hate that you can tell, and you hate that you knew.

"I know," you say, because he's growing impatient, and he deflates like a balloon, nodding tiredly.

You think he might understand more than he's letting on, and you take his hand and squeeze.

*

You call for a new expedition only a week later, asking for the whole crew. They all eagerly flock to you, the boy before anyone else, and you find yourself thanking the heavens that while your crew might not be the smartest – quickest – strongest – you'll have to look long and far to find one more loyal.

*

You're attacked on your way to the rumoured treasure – a fleet of three smaller ships crowding the Lady. If nothing else, you did at least bring your whole crew – you deal with the ships well enough, sinking one and damaging another. You end in a duel with one of the captains – and it ends with her being flung overboard. The splash when she hits the frothing waves below is oddly pleasing.

Langemann is the one to tear through the crowd to your side, informing you that he's been hurt.

You blink. "Who?"

And Langemann says, Pinky.

Your blood runs cold.

*

You sit by his bedside, and he's grinning at you like the little imp he is. There's blood in his hair.

You hate it.

"Do I have to babysit you every moment of your life?" you grumble, your hands clenching – unclenching. So much pain. So much hatred.

You'd nearly lost the battle, back then, because you got distracted. Because of _him._ You hate that he makes you so vulnerable. You hate everything he makes you feel, from the lightest tenderness to the violent worry and anger.

You _hate_ that he makes you feel.

He laughs, but the laugh becomes a cough, and the cough results in bloody napkins pressed to his lips. You curse, but there's nothing you can do to help him, and the worry is screeching deep within you.

Gods, but you hate this. Nothing is supposed to hurt him, but you. And now he's in pain.

He tells you he's fine. You can tell he's touched by you caring.

Of course you care. He's yours.

Oh, how you hate that he is.

You tell him to never do anything like it again, to which he rolls his eyes. He won't make a promise he can't keep, he says.

It's the last straw. You feel it, like metal grinding against metal, bone sliding against bone. The pieces click into place, and you nod, squeezing his hand.

He's in pain, and you're in pain, and he's yours, and you're utterly, completely, helplessly in love.

And you hate it.

"I love you," you say, and you think it might not be a lie.

He grins at you and says he thought that might be the reason, yeah, do you have any other genius realizations to spare?

None that you can afford to tell him, you say, and he laughs like it was supposed to be a joke. His laugh warms, and goodness, how it hurts. How it aches. How you _hate_ it. You lean over to kiss him and taste his blood on your lips, metal and salt.

I love you, too, he says. And you nod.

You know.

*

You wait until he's asleep. You don't want to see his expression. Not now. He's usually a light sleeper – all sailors are, in one way or another – but now he's drugged down on painkillers and rum, wrapped in bandages and warm blankets, and you think he might not wake up for anything in the world.

Not even you.

You touch his forehead, brushing past the bloodied honey-golden curls. You love him, and you hate him, and you hate that you love him.

And you're incredibly selfish when it comes to your own safety.

It's surprisingly easy to slit his throat.

He does wake, after all – his blasted, _beautiful_ eyes staring at you through a confused haze. At least he does not seem to be in much pain. Your name – gasped, cracking and broken – falls from his lips. Like it's a precious thing, even now.

"It's better this way," you tell him softly. He doesn't struggle; doesn't resist – only looks at you with longing. You wonder if he understands. You wonder if _you_ understand.

You clutch at his wrist, thumb digging into his pulse. It evens. Fades.

Withers.

The light in his eyes dulls.

You clutch harder.

His heart doesn't beat again.

There's blood everywhere. Grimy business, slitting throats. You didn't have time to think of anything better – not without potentially changing your mind. Well. You can figure out what to do about that later.

You lace your fingers in his – lifeless and limp.

It's better this way.

You're crying, you realize, the tears falling steadily. You think you might regret this every day of your life. Leaning down, you kiss his lips. It's not the same. It will never be the same again. You wipe at your eyes, but the tears keep coming, and you burn, you burn, you _burn._

It's better this way.

And you hate it.


End file.
